THE ELM TREE. And sometimes underground'Twas in a shady Avenue, Where lofty Elms abound. From poplar, pine, and drooping birch, E'er hovers round, Unless the vagrant breeze, The music of the merry bird, Or hum of busy bees. But busy bees forsake the Elm That bears no bloom aloft The finch was in the hawthorn-bush, The blackbird in the croft; And among the firs the brooding dove, That else might murmur soft. Yet still I heard that solemn sound, And sad it was to boot, From ev'ry overhanging bough, And each minuter shoot; From rugged trunk and mossy rind, From these, a melancholy moan; No sign or touch of stirring air The zephyr had not breath enough The thistle-down to swerve, Or force the filmy gossamers To take another curve. In still and silent slumber hush'd From that MYSTERIOUS TREE! A hollow, hollow, hollow sound, When distant billows boil and bound But the ocean brim was far aloof, No murmur of the gusty sea, The bounded sense could reachMethought the trees in mystic tongue Were talking each to each! Mayhap, rehearsing ancient tales Or blood obscurely spilt; Or of that near-hand Mansion House A royal Tudor built. With wary eyes, and ears alert, As one who walks afraid, I wander'd down the dappled path THE ELM TREE. Of mingled light and shade- How cheerly shone the glimpse of Heav'n Beyond that verdant aisle! All overarch'd with lofty elms, That quench'd the light, the while, As dim and chill As serves to fill Some old Cathedral pile! And many a gnarlèd trunk was there, That ages long had stood, Till Time had wrought them into shapes Or still more foul and hideous forms A crouching Satyr lurking here, As Gothic sculptor's whim; Some whisper from that horrid mouth, As silent as its fellows be, For all is mute with them, The branch that climbs the leafy roof The rough and mossy stem- And tender shoot Where hangs the dewy gem. One mystic Tree alone there is, In all that shady Avenue, Where lofty Elms abound. PART II. The Scene is changed! No green Arcade, No trees all ranged a-row But scatter'd like a beaten host, Dispersing to and fro; With here and there a sylvan corse, That fell before the foe. The Foe that down in yonder dell As witness many a prostrate trunk, Hard by its wooden stump, whereon Alone he works-his ringing blows And on the maple's lofty top, |